someday you'll have a beautiful life
by wellthatdepends
Summary: they're sick of waiting for something good to happen instead of making it happen. [school teacher/mechanic AU]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** AU. ANGST. SO MUCH OF IT. Title taken from _Black_ by Pearl Jam.

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><p>"Daddy?"<p>

She lets the screen door bang behind her, huffing in frustration as she continues her search of the farm. Her father's truck is in its usual place, and she allows herself a moment to panic before her rational side kicks in. He could very well be in the paddocks, checking on animals.

Her father's absence does not automatically mean a relapse.

"Hey."

Spinning around, she comes face to face with a stranger. An attractive stranger, that little voice in her head points out, but now is not the time for that, because she does not know this man and she doesn't know where he came from.

"Who are you and where's my father?"

She winces, her tone coming off a little demanding and the man scowls, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Went into town with…Otis? He'll be back in an hour or so."

"Oh," she nods, feeling a bit silly because it's a Saturday and her father and Otis usually do head into town. Did until he didn't and she doesn't really like to think about that chunk of time when everything was too dark to bear.

"I'm Daryl," the stranger mutters, "I'm fixing the barn."

Oh yeah. The _barn_.

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**.**

**.**

_The day they bury her mother and brother, there isn't a cloud in the sky._

You couldn't have asked for better weather_, people murmur to her sadly, because Beth Greene is delicate, Beth Greene is fragile, and if they offer just their condolences, she might fall apart._

"_Annette would have enjoyed the sunshine," Maggie says quietly, as if their comments warrant a response and perhaps it's the polite thing to do, to reassure them that they are coping as well as anyone could._

_(Her therapist says she should rate her mood on a scale, but there's no way to measure numbness, not between 1 and 10. _

_So she never went back.)_

_When her daddy speaks, his hands shake visibly and she can see the weight of his flask in his jacket pocket. His words make her heart ache and Maggie grips her hand too tight, as if she'll never let go, which is a lie because she knows that as soon as the sun rises she'll be on the road back to Atlanta._

_When they lower her mother into the ground, she places flowers on the coffin. When they lower her brother, one of his friends plays a Pearl Jam song and she balls her hands into fists and wills herself not to cry._

_The day they bury her mother and brother, her father starts drinking, Maggie runs away, and she quits grad school and moves back home to try and put the pieces of their lives back together._

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**.**

He comes on Saturdays, 8am until 2pm. She should know, because she's always there. Every Saturday she drives the one-hour journey to the farm, tidies a bit, makes her father a week's worth of meals. It's under the guise of making sure he hasn't fallen into old habits, this is as clear as day, but it's been three months and he's still sober and she counts each week as a blessing.

Daryl barely addresses her, not since their first awkward encounter. It's a slow process, but her father was never in any rush to fix the barn, having left as it was up until this point to serve as visual reminder. But winter was coming and having a barn with a large, gaping hole, isn't practical, despite the lesson it serves.

She's starting to enjoy being here again. Starting to love the farm, love it's quirks and charms. It hurts less to be using her mother's china, to strum Shaun's guitar. And when her fingers automatically pick out the familiar chords to _Even Flow_ that Shaun taught her all those years ago, it doesn't make her heart clench or her throat close up.

It's been a year, but it's getting easier. Or she's getting stronger.

Maybe both.

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**.**

_They let her teach seven year olds and on days when all she wants to do is curl up and cry, she wonders if that's a good idea._

_She's qualified, there's no doubt. Halfway through her masters even, but she tries not to dwell. Because her job is her lifeline and the kids are quickly becoming her _reason_ and she knows it's not healthy to place her faith in the hands of seven year olds. But they're so good and for the most part, shielded from the bad and god, their smiling faces and lit up eyes must have some kind of restorative powers, this she swears._

_Most of the parents like her, but there's a couple who think she's too young, too inexperienced. Don't like the way their husbands stare too long at her. Don't like that she frequents local bars, even if it is to drag her father out the door._

_She sets out to prove them wrong. _

_Perhaps that's her first mistake._

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"So," she announces, placing a plate and a mason jar on the bed of his truck, perching on the end of the sawhorse, "what do you do when you're not fixing my daddy's barn?"

Startled, he glances up from the plank he's hammering into place. Wiping his brow with a rag, he eyes the food, eyes _her_ and taking the jar, gives her a shrug.

"What makes you think I do anything other than this?"

Beth rolls her eyes, giving his a half smile.

"Because you'd have been done by now. So I'm guessing this isn't your day job."

He grunts in response.

"I'm a mechanic."

"And this is…"

"Easy money."

It makes sense, really. When she got a contractor out to give her quote, it was up in the thousands. Otis probably knew a guy who knew a guy who wasn't available but recommended Daryl Dixon. Or something along those lines.

"What do you do when you're not cleaning and cooking and bringing me lemonade?" he asks, in turn, gesturing to the jar and plate.

"I'm a teacher in town," she replies.

His brow furrows.

"Aren't you a little young?"

She barks a laugh.

"And how young do you think I am?"

"20, 21?" Daryl shrugs, not meeting her eye line.

"I'm 24," she says quietly and suddenly he's looking at her intently, as if to re-evaluate her, having placed her in some category from the beginning and finding that it no longer fits. He starts to look uncomfortable, gazing around nervously and she observes his newfound nervousness, a nice change from his indifference.

"You enjoy your lunch, Daryl Dixon," she nods, giving him an out, "I'll see you next Saturday."

**.**

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**.**

_She thinks she met his brother once. _

_It's a small town. Can't be that many Dixons._

_But it goes like this, every Friday night; a phone call from the local bar, her father, sobbing apologies into his whiskey, the bartender giving her that pitying look she's got to know so well. _

_She's trying to balance his weight, while paying his tab, when a man she recognises as one of her student's father, sidles up to her, breath reeking of beer and whiskey, his eyes too dark for her liking._

"_You wanna drop that drunk daddy of yours off and have some fun, Miss Greene?" he slurs, dragging his palm up and down her arm, "We'll have some real fun."_

"_Not interested," she snaps, her father murmuring nonsense at her side._

_His hand drifts lower, resting on her ass._

"_Don't touch me!" she slaps him away and he grins._

"_You know, my wife's a real bitch," he laughs, "can make your life a living hell. Especially if I tell her how _Miss Greene was trying to seduce me in a bar_-"_

"_No one would want to seduce you in a bar," a man appears behind her, towering over him, "not even your wife."_

"_You mind your business, Dixon!" the man snaps. 'Dixon' merely laughs, shoving him into a nearby booth._

"_Go home and sleep it off," he nods at the man, who struggles to get up and fails. Shouldering the weight of her father, he heads towards the door; leaving Beth shocked and playing catch up behind him._

"_Um, thanks?" she murmurs, still not sure what happened in there. _

"_Not a problem, Teach," he gives her a wink, "just fulfilling my redneck in shining armour duties, since my little brother ain't here to do it himself."_

"_Still," Beth gives him a small smile, "you didn't have to."_

"_Yeah, well," the man shrugs, depositing her father into her truck, "you look like you got your hands full enough with your old man. Seen you collect him a few times now…"_

"_Yeah," Beth glances back towards the bar, "family, you know."_

"_I know," Dixon drawls, "you take care of yourself, Miss Greene."_

_When she gets home, she pours all the liquor in the house down the sink and cries because she knows that tomorrow he'll just go out and buy more._

**.**

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**.**

The following Saturday she arrives at the farm later than usual. There was a school board meeting that wouldn't end, so she came straight from the school, a floral dress and cardigan replacing her usual attire of jeans and t-shirts. Her father stands by the barn, waving her over when she hops out her truck.

"Bethy," he greets her affectionately and she smiles warmly, giving him a hug, "you look lovely."

"School meeting, daddy," she rolls her eyes. Taking in the scene before her, Daryl Dixon, with his sleeveless shirts, sawing a piece of wood, and Otis holding it steady. Otis gives her a friendly nod when he spots her, but it's Daryl that's her sole focus. Daryl, who pauses in his movements to drag his eyes up and down her body, lingering on her bare legs and she can't help but blush, which he notices and smirks as a response.

"I know you're dressed up, Bethy," her dad grabs her attention, "but Jimmy's noticed one of the fences needing repair and Otis and I need to assess how serious it is. You mind helping Daryl here?"

"Just need to hold the wood, Beth," Otis chimes in, "nothing strenuous."

Any instruction Otis tries to give her falls to the wayside as Beth's focus is firmly on her father's earlier statement.

"Jimmy's here?" She murmurs lowly, eyes narrowing.

"Now Bethy," Hershel sighs, "that was a long time ago. He's moved on. He's not here to cause a fuss. And you shouldn't either."

"Fine," Beth sighs, "it's fine."

When her father and Otis leave, she huffs a sigh, turning back to Daryl.

"I just gotta hold it?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't utter a single word, and perhaps that frustrates her even more.

"You ain't gonna ask me about Jimmy?" she demands and he responds by raising an eyebrow.

"Why should I care?"

He's right. Why should he care? He's not her boyfriend or even her _friend_. He's just a handyman that she finds attractive and has had a few conversations with and she's probably just nothing to him.

Nothing at all.

"You're right," she shrugs, "I guess you shouldn't."

There's an awkward silence, filled with only the sound of the saw.

"He cheat on you or something?"

She raises an eyebrow. Maybe she's not nothing after all.

"Asked me to marry him. I said no and that was that. Six months later he married some other girl."

"But you said no?"

"I was _18_," she rolls her eyes, "I wasn't ready to be anyone's wife."

"Fair enough."

"Yeah," she nods, "he tried to kiss me a while back. It was right after…well, it doesn't matter. But he's married with a kid and another on a way and he tried to kiss me. And I didn't kiss him back or anything, but his wife, she still called me a whore and slapped me in the grocery store anyway."

He's quiet and she wonders if he even heard her.

"People are fuckin' idiots. Always trying to blame their problems on anyone other than themselves."

It's the obvious, sure, but it still makes her feel a bit better. And when she sees Jimmy later that day, in the kitchen, when she's making Daryl a sandwich, she tells him in no uncertain terms to _fuck off_.

And it feels _good_.

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**.**

_Maggie gives her father an ultimatum: she'll come see him once he quits drinking._

_It's safe to say it was a quiet Christmas._

_She spends New Years Eve in the hayloft, with her guitar and a bottle of peach schnapps that she doesn't drink. She plays 'Nevermind' and cries when her phone beeps, signalling the New Year and she doesn't bother with resolutions because she knows she'll never keep them._

_Because come morning her daddy will still be drinking and Maggie will still be gone and she'll be carrying the weight of the farm, the weight of her family on her shoulders and trying not to drown._

**.**

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**.**

"You did what!?" Maggie exclaims beside her, pausing mid-chop, the carrots forgotten. Her cries capture the attention of Daryl and his new assistant, Maggie's husband Glenn, but Maggie simply waves at them through the kitchen window, yelling out a quick _sorry_.

"I'm not repeating it, Mags," Beth rolls her eyes, peeling potatoes.

Maggie bumps her hip, not gently, mind you.

"Well, I'm still trying to wrap my head around my little sister telling someone to 'fuck off'. It's hard, you know."

"He deserved it."

"He deserves a fucking lot more than a 'fuck off'," Maggie swears, the most expletives this kitchen has seen in her whole life, "how'd he react?"

"Don't know," Beth shrugs, "I just walked away, gave Daryl his sandwich and he didn't follow me or try to talk to me or anything."

"Would have helped having the surly hottie silently staking his claim as well," Maggie muses and Beth pinches her arm.

"It's not like that, Mags," Beth sighs, "I mean, the guy thought I was in college."

"And you're not," Maggie says pointedly, "you're a single woman in her twenties with a job and your own apartment. I've seen him checking you out at least twice in the last hour alone. Ask _him_ out. If you can stick it to Jimmy, you can ask out the biker lumberjack."

"I don't think he's either of those things-"

"Not the point, Beth," Maggie interrupts, "aren't you sick of playing by the rules?"

She is. She is so _sick_ and _tired_ and she feels like she's just fighting a losing battle, a battle that gets her put on probation at the school and slapped in the grocery store and ostracised at church. She's sick of never getting what she wants. She's sick of _waiting _for something good to happen instead of _making_ it happen.

So _yeah_. Rules be damned.

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**.**

_She's not sure when _this_ became her life. Sitting in the back of the church, listening to the ladies whisper around her, their glares hostile and direct. _

_Jimmy's wife sits front and centre, hands resting on the curve of her stomach, head held high because she is the victim, because she is the woman scorned._

_And Beth is the scarlet woman._

_Beth hates her title, hates this role she's been cast in, that she never even auditioned for. Because she didn't even _look_ at Jimmy, didn't even talk to him and now there's a fake, twisted history of secret glances and stolen conversations that never took place and led to a married man breaking his vows. _

_And Beth didn't do a_ goddamn thing_._

The nerve of her_, she hears someone murmuring. _She used to be such a sweet girl_, another person tuts. And she feels her throat tightening and her eyes burning, but she will not bolt, she will not back down. Because she knows the truth. Because Jimmy's wife knows the truth. _

_But the truth isn't' worth a damn, especially in this town._

_What kills her the most is knowing that if Shawn were alive, he would have punched Jimmy right in the face. If Maggie were around, she would have yelled right back in her face as the woman called Beth a whore in front of the whole town. And her Mama would have sat right there in the back pew, holding her hand, glaring at the old bitties who had the _nerve_ to assume such things about _Annette Greene's daughter_. _

_It's knowing that her life should have been different. It's knowing that she had all that, but it was taken away._

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**.**

She doesn't think her blouse is particularly sexy – long sleeves, buttons up to the neck, printed with little cats, but the way the garage erupts into whistles and catcalls, you'd think she was some kind of playboy bunny.

Truth is, it's probably the modest heels and pencil skirt that's the cause of her sexual harassment, maybe even her glasses and she's not naïve, not totally clueless to the knowledge of male fantasies.

"Teach," a familiar voice lets out a low whistle, "car trouble, or troubles of another kind?"

She graces the elder Dixon with a genuine smile. She's not one to forget kindnesses bestowed upon her, especially not in recent times.

"I'm here to see your brother."

The other guys cheer and catcall, starting a chant of _Daryl, Daryl, Daryl_, and she almost feels like blushing on his behalf. The elder Dixon laughs.

"You the Greene whose barn he's fixing? Knew that boy wasn't buying new shirts to impress some old man."

"Enough, Merle," Daryl scowls, appearing behind his brother, "you don't know a goddamn thing."

"I don't?" Merle chuckles, "alrighty then, baby brother. Teach, always a pleasure."

Tipping an imaginary hat, he strolls back to his workstation and business returns to normal.

"You purposely trying to destroy your reputation?" he growls, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her outside.

"Excuse me?"

"Coming to a place like this," he snaps, "wearing something like that, talking to someone like me."

"If you think I give a _fuck_ about my reputation?" There's that word again, that word that should make her flinch, but instead fills her with newfound empowerment. "Because I'll tell you this, Daryl Dixon, I spent the last year trying to be the picture of a sweet, moralistic school teacher, and all it did was get me labelled a drunk, a home wrecker, and a 'questionable influence'. And all it got me was a summer spent in a psych ward."

There's a silence that stretches and he looks at her, a hard, analytical glint in his eyes.

And then a beat.

"Psych ward?"

And once again, Beth Greene's gone from playing her cards close to her chest, to dropping every last one on the ground.

**.**

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**.**

"_The PTA has been talking," the principal tells her quietly, a gentle edge in his voice._

"_That's never good," Beth jokes nervously, fiddling with the cuff of her blouse._

"_There have been some…_rumours_ about your behaviour in town."_

_Beth can't find the words, can't even defend herself. Against what, she wonders to herself. Against everything, is likely the answer._

"_Apparently you're frequenting the local bars on school nights. And there's murmurs about a _liaison_ with a married man."_

"_It's not," she stumbles, trying to find the words, "I'm not…"_

"_I believe you," the principal murmurs softly, sighing heavily, "I know how these women can get. I know your father is going through some troubles and you're running the farm as well as working here. I know you're under a great deal of pressure and it doesn't help that often pretty, young teachers are the most harshly judged. But it's the parents I have to listen to. It's the parents that take their grievances straight to the district board if they're not 'satisfied' with my handling of their concerns."_

_Beth quickly wipes away a tear, cursing her weakness._

"_I understand."_

"_I'm going to have to put you on probation. I'm sorry, Beth. I truly am."_

_And Beth will pretend it's alright. Because like with everything in her life, she lives with a web of carefully crafted facades and fronts and were one to crack, she's certain she'd fall apart beyond repair._

**.**

**.**

**.**

Beth sees him the following Saturday. It's awkward, to say the least, as she pretty much bolted after the incident at the garage.

Though, new Beth – no, not new, more so _upgraded_ – isn't shying away from this. Church, sure. The grocery store, sure. But not this man who works on her Daddy's farm. Who works on _her _farm. For once in her life, she's going to confront rather than avoid.

And it feels good.

So she brings him a sandwich and a jar of iced tea. She gives him a tight smile and opens her mouth to speak.

"Dinner. Tonight."

Only she quickly shuts it when he interrupts her, throwing out his own words, words that are so much better, so much more effective than anything she could possibly say.

"Yes."

**.**

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**.**

_When Maggie asks her how long _it's_ been, she almost dies._

_Because there was a man called Zach, before, in college. Who was charming and handsome and every bit the gentleman. _

_Until her mother died and she moved back home and he _couldn't do the long distance thing, it wasn't fair on him.

_And that had been the end._

_Before him, there was Jimmy, who was sweet until he wasn't, until she was gently turning him down and he was throwing her out of his car, calling her all kinds of names in the heat of the moment and inspired a dozen more from Shawn who picked her up and drove her back home._

_She had high hopes, but hope doesn't translate into love and maybe that was the catch, maybe after all the crying was over and she had stitched her heart back together, the new light revealing that maybe she didn't love them. Not like she thought she did. Not the way she wanted to._

_And shouldn't love be awe-inspiring and madness inducing and flame-igniting and destructive in all the best ways possible?_

_Shouldn't it?_

**.**

**.**

**.**

He picks her up in his truck, wearing jeans without holes and vest she'd never seen before, black leather with white stitched angel wings. She's struck with how attractive he is, how his arms fit her vision of a handsome Disney prince and she has to shake herself out of any fantasies that he might be the one to save her.

That's not how her story works.

"You look nice," he says gruffly and she can't help but blush.

(Because maybe she went to a bit of effort. Maybe she spent two hours washing and shaving and painting everything that she should and deliberated twenty minutes longer than she should have over underwear and measured the hemlines of dresses to find the right median between schoolmarm and sex kitten.)

"Thanks."

There's one restaurant in town deemed fancy, solely due to the tablecloths and battery operated tea lights. Still, there's no reservation needed, and when they walk in the owner's daughter leads them to a table, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Maybe in another world, it would be.

But it's date night. The night when the teenage girls of this town make their money that they'll spend at the mall the next day and the parents can pretend that it's ten years ago and that their love is still as passionate as ever. She recognises off the bat five women she knows from either school or church, all of whom are looking at her with mixes of disdain and judgment. It's all a bit much.

"You wanna go somewhere else?" he asks, noticing her discomfort.

Beth nods.

"You wanna go to the diner? Or the bar?"

She doesn't. She doesn't want to be around these people who will surely ruin her night in one way or another.

"Let's get Chinese and go back to mine," she says softly, "I just want to spend the evening with you. Please."

It's ridiculous how much her heart swells when he grabs her hand as they leave the restaurant. Just like it's ridiculous that she's this flattered by a man buying her takeout.

She shouldn't but she is.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"_I'm sorry."_

_In the doorway to her classroom, stands Jimmy, hands in his pocket, looking guilty beyond words._

"_Why are you here, Jimmy?" she asks, glancing at the clock. It's after school hours, but still, if anyone sees him here, it will surely add flame to a fire she's trying so desperately to put out. _

"_I need to apologise, Beth," he pleads, "I need to make this right."_

"_Can you go back in time?" Beth sighs, "Can you go back to when your guilty conscience convinced you it would be a good idea to tell your wife you kissed your ex-girlfriend?"_

"_If I could, I would," Jimmy tells her earnestly, "You gotta believe me, Beth. I'll do anything."_

"_Anything?" Beth asks, doubtfully._

"_Anything."_

"_Fine. Leave me alone." Beth says simply, leaning against the whiteboard, "That's all. I'll forgive you if you just leave me alone. I don't need your wife trying to ruin my life any further."_

"_I'm sorry," Jimmy says again, backing out the room, "I really am."_

"_Yeah, Jimmy," Beth shakes her head, "so am I."_

**.**

**.**

**.**

She wakes up with a heavy arm around her waist where her bed sheet should be. It takes her a second to remember the events of the night before, and when she does she can't stop the blush spreading across her cheeks or the heat pooling between her legs.

There was Chinese food. There was beer for him and wine for her. There was Johnny Cash on vinyl and then there was her lips colliding with his and his hands tugging her hips close and too many layers separating fingers from skin.

When he lifts her like she weighs nothing, arms tense and bulging, she practically falls apart there and then because this, this is the stuff of bodice ripping, wanton moaning, romance novels. When he _tears_ her panties from her body, she questions the possibility of this being a fever dream, because there is _no way_ this could be real.

But it is. And he convinces her with his fingers and his lips and his tongue and every single curse that falls from his mouth the moment he feels the hot heat of her mouth wrapped around him.

She's wound up now, thankful that it's Sunday because there's no possible way she could go to work in her current condition. And she hopes there will be a round four (_four!_) because there's no possible way that her fingers will do now that she's experienced _all of him_.

No way at all.

"Mornin'," Daryl rolls into her, pressing her down on the mattress, placing a gentle kiss to her neck. She can feel him hard against her thigh and she can't help but smile, arms curling around his forearms.

"Morning," she says, sighing contently, "you got any plans today?"

"Nope," he replies, his fingers trailing down her sides, dipping dangerously close to where she so wants him, "nothing at all."

"Good," Beth giggles, using her weight to roll them so she's on top, straddling him. He's hard and she's wanting so she doesn't bother to deny the inevitable.

And forth time round (_forth!_) it's _real _good.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"_Have you thought about facilities?"_

_Beth's jaw drops._

"_You mean rehab?"_

_Maggie scowls._

"_Yeah, of course I mean rehab. Don't look so mortified, he clearly needs help."_

_Fuming, Beth slams the pitchfork down into the haystack, wiping her hands angrily on her jeans._

"_And what have I been doing, huh Maggie? Nothing? Having a good ol' time?"_

"_You're enabling him," Maggie sighs, leaning against the barn, "you think you're helping, sure, but you're just cleaning up his messes. He needs professional help."_

"_I'm doing the best that I can."_

_Oh lord how she's trying. Trying and failing, sure, but she's here, she's not absent like Maggie. She never abandoned him, could never abandon him and placing him in rehab, god, what is it if not giving up?_

"_It's been nine months, Bethy," Maggie sighs, "I know he's grieving, we all are. But there comes a point when you need to pull yourself together."_

"_He's getting better," Beth protests and Maggie shakes her head, "you don't see it but I do!"_

"_He's drinking himself into an early grave," Maggie snaps, "why can't you see that Beth?"_

_Why can't she see that indeed?_

**.**

**.**

**.**

Pushing the cart hesitantly up the aisle, she sighs.

"You seriously don't have to do this," Beth pleads. The man beside her grunts, pausing to place something in his own basket.

"Just think it's ridiculous that you go to a grocery store the next town over, is all," he mutters, "shouldn't let anyone intimidate you."

"It's not like that," Beth sighs, and he grabs her cart, forcing her to stop.

"What's it like then? Another woman's husband puts the moves on you and _you're_ the one who has to shop somewhere else. You didn't do anything wrong, so stop acting like you did."

Here's the thing about Daryl: they've only been _together _for two weeks. Two weeks, and sure, it's mostly physical, but he _gets_ her. Just understands that she needs this, this push forward out of her comfort zone and out of her safety net. He's not the most tactful about it, nor is he gentle, but she's had a year of people 'gently' telling her that her best wasn't her best and maybe this is what she needs, his harsh conviction reminding her of all the ways she is 'right'.

"Yeah," Beth says softly, "you're right."

"Course I'm fucking right," Daryl grouses, "now then. What's on your list?"

He's not the most patient man, this she recognises. She could never take him clothes shopping, but maybe that's alright. She's had two boyfriends that tended to her every whim and even then, they turned out to be jerks anyway. Why not this surly man? Why not?

He steps away momentarily, leaving her to wander by herself. She starts to think that maybe her insecurities are in her head, the stares and whispers fabricated by her own imagination. She let's herself grow confident, as she stands before the display of condoms, determined to embrace her empowerment, despite the growing overwhelming feeling of doubt. Because she can be this modern woman, she can be this _better_ version of herself.

"Beth _Greene_."

Her blood runs cold at the sound of the last person she wanted to see. Jimmy's wife.

"Oh. Hello."

The woman looks flawless, even pushing a baby in a pram, even with a scowl on her face. It doesn't hurt like it used to, looking at her and seeing everything that she could have been, had she given Jimmy a different answer. It hurts in new ways - the sting of a palm on her face, the names, and the labels.

She glances between Beth and the condoms, her lips curling in a smirk.

"Hope you're not trying to ruin any more marriages, Bethy."

"I, uh…"

_Just tell her_, Maggie's voice echoes in her head, _just tell her what she knows to be the truth._

"How's it go, Beth, you always want what you don't have?" she laughs, rolling her eyes, "You're so pathetic-"

"Shut up!" Beth exclaims, "Just, shut up! I don't want Jimmy. I didn't want him when we were eighteen and I don't want him now. And _he_ kissed _me_, not the other way around. So I'm sorry your husband tried to cheat on you. But I'm trying to build my own life, okay? So you both need to leave me alone!"

She feels mentally and physically exhausted, like she could sleep for days, but by the look of pure shock on the other woman's face, her intent was successful. Her message was clear.

"Babe," she feels him before he speaks, his voice deep and rough in her ear. Pressed close, he reaches around her, pointing a box marked 'XL'. "Get those."

Blushing, she reaches for the box, ignoring the glare that Jimmy's wife has fixed her with, ignoring everything but him, his hand on her hip and his breath hot in her ear.

"Grab two boxes."

Oh god. She can barely walk away, her legs feeling like jelly from both her confrontation and _him_. She's in a daze when she pays for her groceries. She's in a daze when he drives her home and helps her put everything away. She's in a daze until he pins her against the wall, and suddenly she's back, clawing at him and screaming so loud she's sure her neighbours can hear.

But like everything she's done today, she can't bring herself to worry about the consequences. Not when she's so focused on finding happiness.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"_I'm so sorry Bethy!"_

_With a heavy sigh, she tugs off her father's boots, her shoulder aching from half carrying, half dragging him up the stairs. But she's used to it by now, used to his weight slumped over her._

_She still can't hate him, as much as she wishes she could._

"_It's alright, daddy," she says softly, "it's alright."_

"_You're too good," he slurs into the dark, "just like your mother."_

_And god, how it stings. How the seemingly innocent comment makes her heart ache and she thinks of the pamphlets hidden away in her journal, thinks of Maggie's latest message- _what's your decision?

"_You won't leave me, will you Bethy?"_

_He's passed out before she can even stutter a reply._

_But it's enough to fill her with guilt; it's enough to bring the bile to her throat. That if she abandons him like this, what does that make her? What does it make any of them?_

_She throws away the pamphlets. She texts Maggie _no_._

**.**

**.**

**.**

When he pushes her hands away, she pulls back.

It's not the first time he's done that, not the second or third either. It's a long list of occasions where her hands have wandered to close to his back and he's responded by pushing them away or pinning them above her head or distracting her in…other ways.

She knows they exist, the scars. Have caught glimpses when he thought she couldn't see. Seen the ugliness, but interpreted them as strength. Another sign of the demons he has battled, he has faced. A sign that he is bent, but not broken. Just like her.

"You don't need to hide from me," she says in a whisper, "it's not about who you were then. It's about who you are _now_."

It's meant to be reassuring, to be supportive and kind. It's meant to be something beautiful, something pure, and something that says _I care for you, scars and all_.

"You think you know me, don't you girl?" he says lowly, moving himself further away.

"Daryl…"

"No, you think because you fucked me a couple of times you know all about my past?" his voice is barely contained rage and she feels herself edging away.

"You think because you cut yourself once for attention that we match or something? Huh? Is that what you think?"

And like that, her own restraint snaps. Any fear she had felt is replaced with anger and she feels her face grow red and the all too familiar lump growing in her throat.

"Is that what _you _think?"

Daryl snorts. "That's what I know, sweetheart."

"Of course," Beth says softly, shaking her head, "of course you know. Because everyone in this goddamn town knows. How Hershel Greene drove his tractor into his barn, drunk, as usual. And then his _whore_ of a daughter tried to kill herself. That's what your heard, right? Don't worry, that's all they talk about, when they think I can't , disgust, disappointment, it's nothing new, Daryl, I've heard it all. Why should you be any different?"

The tears don't fall as she's met with silence. Wordlessly, she stands, opening her front door, waiting quietly for him to leave.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't look back.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"_Why'd you do it, Beth?" _

_Maggie sits on the edge of the bed, eyes red, skin pale. If she was crying, she's tried to hide it. As is her way._

"_I'm sorry Maggie," Beth sobs, "I'm so sorry."_

"_I called your counsellor," Maggie says softly, "they said you never went back."_

"_I was handling it," Beth whispers, "I was."_

"_They said you're depressed, Bethy," her sister murmurs, "the principal called and said that if you want to keep teaching, you need to get some help."_

_There's a pause and Beth puts the pieces together. _

"_What did you do, Maggie?"_

"_Daddy's going to rehab," Maggie replies firmly, "the barn is a wreck, and the doctor says he'll be lucky if he regains even partial mobility of his leg. He's lucky he didn't kill someone, let alone himself. It's a twelve-week program at a nice facility. They'll get him the help he needs."_

"_And me?"_

_With a sigh, Maggie stands, revealing a small duffle bag on the chair behind her._

"_You never grieved, Beth. You took that burden on by yourself. I wasn't there and I know that's on me, but I had to heal. I had to do it my way. But if you had called me, I would have been there in a heartbeat. I would do anything for you, Bethy."_

"_Where are you taking me?" Beth whispers._

"_You tried to kill yourself," Maggie sobs, "I found you holding your own wrist, bleeding all over the bathroom tiles. You need help. I'm so sorry."_

_Glancing down at her bandaged wrist, Beth can't bring it in herself to hate her sister. Can't even find it in her to resent her even the slightest. _

_Because she's right. Heaven knows she's right._

**.**

**.**

**.**

When he doesn't turn up at the farm the following Saturday, she lets it slide. Really, she does. She understands awkwardness, understands the need for time in order to process and heal. But when he doesn't show up the Saturday after, she gets pissed.

Because regardless of this _thing_ between him, she paid for a service. And while they might not have a contract, her daddy had his_ word_. And she knows Daryl Dixon is not a man to back down on that.

So she decides to go to the garage after school, not caring about her schoolmarmish dress or mustard tights or lace-up saddle shoes. She doesn't care that they're going to catcall or make crude comments and that she'll add further fuel to the gossip mill's fire.

"I'm looking for your brother," she marches up to Merle Dixon, attempting to look as determined as possible. It must work, because he takes a step back from his workstation, observing her with a raised eyebrow.

"Teach," he nods, "it's good to see you too."

"Merle," she keeps her tone firm, "where's Daryl?"

"Hunting," Merle shrugs, eyes darting towards the office, "sometimes he just takes off. Why, you need someone to scratch an itch?"

"Liar," Beth snaps, "it's not the right season. I'm not an idiot, so don't treat me like one."

"What should I treat you like then, Miss Beth Greene?" his tone is no longer light, no longer joking. It is harsh and mean and it makes her shift away from him.

"Because my little brother's walking around her like someone ran over his dog and it all started when he stopped going to your daddy's farm."

"He owes me two weeks of construction and an apology," she says stubbornly.

"He don't owe you shit."

The words sting like she'd been slapped. But it's _true_. He doesn't owe her anything. She'd made her own assumptions and he'd made his and the truth is that maybe skin didn't heal back thicker. Truth is she is still full of self-doubt and fear and she has mantras written on flash cards to help her push the pieces back together when she feels herself start to fall apart.

Like now.

"Yeah," Beth rubs her face with the back of her palm, before resting momentarily in the crook of her elbow, curling them around herself protectively, "nobody owes me anything except myself."

Merle Dixon looks at her as though she's lost her mind, but she's already halfway to her car, repeating the same phrase over and over under her breath.

_Nobody owes you anything except yourself._

**.**

**.**

**.**

"_You're going home today, Beth."_

_She knows this. She's been counting down the days in her journal, a rough tally that resembles that which someone might see on a prison wall. Instead, she nods, giving the doctor a faint smile._

"_I am."_

"_You're looking forward to it, I imagine?"_

"_I'm looking forward to seeing my family," she replies softly, "the farm. I'm, uh, I'm going to get an apartment in town."_

"_That's good," her doctor praises her, smiling, "independence is key to remaining on the right track. Do you remember what we talked about regarding independence?"_

"_Independence is not loneliness," Beth recites solemnly, "independence is strength."_

"_There's a grief support group near where you live," the doctor hands her a flyer, "it might be good for you to go. Talk to people who understand. Don't hide your problems away, Beth."_

"_I won't," she murmurs, a promise she knows she'll break._

**.**

**.**

**.**

She stands outside the community centre, before turning on her heels and heading towards the bar.

Sometimes Beth feels like a traitor to herself, turning to the bottle instead of therapy, and she wonders what her counsellor would say, what Maggie would say, what her _daddy_ would say.

Nothing good, probably.

But she orders a beer, ignores the bartender who gives her a glance of recognition. Sips at it delicately, cringing at the bitter taste before her eyes land on a small sign.

_Karaoke. Tonight_.

So sure, why not.

Beth downs her beer when they call her name, walks to the podium and takes the microphone, ignoring the small screen because she already knows the words. Memorised them long ago, when she was only small and her brother would teach her chords on his battered guitar. When she could hear the record blasting throughout the house. When he would sing it to her softly when she was sad or scared or both, stroking her hair, almost a whisper.

"_Son, she said, have I got a little story for you…_"

And when she sees _him_, staring at her from across the bar, his eyes focused intently, all she can do is look away, blinking to keep the tears at bay, swallowing quickly so her voice doesn't waver.

"_Oh I, oh, I'm still alive…_"

There's a smattering of applause when she finishes her song. Her voice is nice, that she knows, and the song a popular one, but still, it's a surprise and it almost makes her feel a bit better.

Almost.

She orders another beer, sitting next to him. He flinches visibly, and she gives him a terse smile.

"Don't worry," she murmurs, "I'm not going to pry into your life again."

Maybe it's a bit harsh, but it's the truth. She's done, she's out. She's given up, like all the times before.

"It's my brother's birthday," she raises her beer, as if to toast him, "would have been thirty years old. He was sweet on this girl from his work. She had this douche bag boyfriend and I would help him plan how he was going to win her over. I met her at the funeral, and I think he already had."

Beth puts her head down in her arms, tilting so she's facing him.

"He was supposed to get married, and have babies, and we'd have birthdays and holidays and summer picnics…that's how unbelievably stupid I am."

"That's how it was supposed to be," Daryl offers gruffly and she smiles sadly.

"Yeah," Beth sighs, choking on a sob, "instead I tried to kill myself."

He clears her throat, offering her a mostly clean red rag and she dabs at her eyes gently.

"I'll be round on Saturday," he mutters, "to finish the barn."

"Okay," Beth nods into her arms, eyes feeling suddenly heavy, "I guess I'll see you then."

Daryl moves to leave, but hesitates.

"You right to drive?"

Beth barks a laugh.

"This is only my second. And I walked."

"You want a ride?" he asks, rubbing his head awkwardly.

"Nah," Beth sighs, "it's not far."

He nods, but doesn't move, standing stiffly, eyes focused on the ground.

"Okay, well, bye."

"Beth,"

She turns and is half-surprised to find him looking her in the eye.

"I said some shit that I shouldn't," he says quietly, carefully, as if afraid that she might break. Or he might break.

"Yeah," she breathes, "but so did I."

"Well, I'm sorry," he says quickly, "I don't know shit about you. Wasn't right for me to think I did."

"Would you have cared?" Beth blurts out, catching him off guard, "If, six months down the track, and we were still a 'thing', would you have asked?"

"There was never gonna be a six months down the track, Beth," he says cautiously, "You know that."

Beth swallows a sob.

"Don't know anything anymore."

**.**

**.**

**.**

Maggie sighs.

"You ever going to tell me what happened?"

"Nothing worth telling," Beth shrugs, fixing a plate of cut up apples and carrot sticks, placing them beside a tray filled with sandwiches and lemonade.

"Was the sex bad?" Maggie asks, sympathetically.

"It just didn't work. We're too different. We want different things."

"What does he want?" She pries.

"Not me," Beth whispers.

"Okay," Maggie says softly, "what do want then?"

"I don't know."

Outside, Glenn is holding a piece of wood as Daryl hammers it securely to a support beam. The barn is almost finished. Next week they'll paint it and she will never have to see Daryl Dixon ever again.

That's not how it works; she knows this. Because it's a small town and now, she sees him everywhere.

"Maybe you should work it out."

**.**

**.**

**.**

Two weeks later she packs her car, hands in her letter of resignation, kisses her daddy goodbye, and drives to a new town, in a new state, where no one, absolutely know one knows the name 'Greene'.

Two weeks after that she finds out she's pregnant. And eight months later, when she meets little Dylan Shawn Greene, she knows that this is exactly what she wanted.

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p>Part 2 coming soon. Thank you for reading.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** PART 2. Heavy on the angst, but I hope you enjoy their resolution. _Where the Wild Things Are_ is written by Maurice Sendak. Thank you for reading. xx

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

He's not sure why he goes to the funeral.

Well, Merle is.

_Ain't seen Teach in five years. Didn't realise you were the nostalgic type, little brother_.

He remembers the old man. Remembers the way he used to limp around his farm, leg all busted from 'the accident'. Never knew why the town referred to it as such, call a spade a spade for crying out loud because at the end of the day it was just a drunk who drove a tractor into his barn.

It's probably not as uncommon as it seems.

Still, Daryl remembers him being kind. Wasn't the type to turn up his nose at him, or tell him to stay away from his daughter. He paid him weekly, thanked him for his work and when the job was done, promised to recommend his services around town.

Didn't have much to do with him otherwise.

(There was a visit, two years back, where he came into the shop, looking like a man on a mission. But his words faltered and as quick as he arrived the old man left, murmuring his apology and shaking his head, leaving Daryl in a state of confusion. He shrugged it off, eventually.)

Maybe, deep down, he thinks he might see Beth again. Might catch a glimpse of that corn silk blonde hair and bright eyes and genuine smile. Might find himself a resolution, five years later, when she still haunts his dreams and his nightmares. Maybe he'll finally be able to shake the ghost of Beth Greene.

It's Hershel's funeral when he sees her, and his breath catches. Not because she's as beautiful as he remembers, because she is, oh she is. But because sitting next to her is a little boy, squirming and fussing with his suit.

And it's just like mirror into the past.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Merle used to say that Dixon kids were cursed. _Ain't never got nothing from Santa, ain't never had no easter egg hunt or no childhood to write home about.

_His first memory is his father backhanding his mother and her flying across the room._

_Merle had ten years on him, which perhaps was the biggest issue. As soon as he was old enough, he bailed. Be in the Army or jail, he wasn't around to stop the punches or the kicks or the lashings of the belt. Showed up when Daryl was seventeen, told him to pack a bag, and he was gone._

_A year later, and the old man was dead anyway._

_Such is life, et cetera, et cetera. _

**.**

**.**

**.**

He walks around in a daze, after the funeral. Doesn't speak to her. Doesn't know what he'd say, even if he could work up the nerve to approach her.

Doesn't know how he'd react, if his suspicions were correct.

"Hey, Darylina!"

He bumps his head on the hood of the car he's working on, muttering a few choice curse words, shooting a glare at Merle who's smirking in his direction.

"Where are you, little brother?"

Where is he? Certainly not at work, not when every single second of his day is spent thinking about Beth Greene and the child who has his eyes. Not when he's trying to mentally calculate his age. Hell, maybe he's not the father. Maybe Beth moved away and found the love of her life and the perfect life she was destined to have.

Still, those eyes…

"Saw Beth, at the funeral."

"Yeah? No shit."

Daryl rolls his eyes. "She has a kid. About five, I'd reckon."

For once, Merle is speechless. Small miracles.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_In the few months they were 'together', he never showed her his scars. She knew, of course she knew, but she had no idea of the extent. _

_He planned to keep it that way._

_Never mentioning her own marked wrist, he assumed she would do the same. He should have known better, when her gentle words tried to pry from him his secrets. _She_ should have known better, and when he lashed out, he could see from the pain clearly etched across her features that he had hurt her._

_She let him under her skin, into her heart, and he broke it. Just as he knew he would._

**.**

**.**

**.**

A week after the funeral he sees her again. It's déjà vu when she walks into the garage, hears the whistles and the chanting of his name. And when he sees her, not from a distance, he is slightly taken aback.

Gone are the blouses and cute little skirts, the winged eyeliner, the painted lips. The boots are the same, and he wonders for a moment if maybe that was the only authentic part of her, back then, when she was trying to be someone she thought she needed to be. Instead, her dress is simple, practical, and she wears a hesitant smile.

"Daryl. Hi."

"Hey," he murmurs, because it's been five years and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of her at all, because he _had_. You don't forget people like Beth Greene. You don't forget beautiful girls who are broken.

"You've been well?"

She cringes and he almost smirks at how uncomfortable she is. A far cry from the girl who strode in here five years ago pursuing _him, _a no-good redneck with a penchant for tarnishing reputations.

"Well enough," he shrugs and she gives him a tight smile.

"Good. I'm glad."

"You wanted something, Greene?" he drawls. She flinches, glancing around the small office that he'd led her to for privacy from prying eyes.

"Maybe we could do this somewhere else?" she asks nervously. His eyes narrow.

"Here's fine."

"Okay," Beth sighs, "okay." She presses a photo into his hands. It's of a boy, in a monster costume, smiling, cake smeared across his mouth. His eyes the exact same shade of blue as his own.

"This is Dylan. My son. _Your _son."

_His son._

He thought the confirmation might settle something within him, but he still feels like he can't breath.

"Maybe we should go somewhere else."

**.**

**.**

**.**

_She was the first woman he gave a damn about._

_A gift and a curse, he supposed._

_Because he had spent thirty-five years of his life with no attachments, just Merle, following him through Georgia, through the backwater towns, through questionable establishments. They were fringe people, no-good redneck scum and some days he was relieved when people crossed the street when they saw him because it meant he wouldn't have to deal with them either. These feelings, they were mutual. _

_She came into his life like a hurricane carrying a plate of sandwiches, and looking back, maybe the majority of their relationship took place in the eye of the storm. Maybe he learnt too much and liked her more than he should and when the debris was cleared away, he realised that everything was broken to begin with._

_She leant on him too hard when he was determined to float away._

_Some days, he wished she'd tethered him to the ground. Some days, he thinks that there's no stakes or rope strong enough to pin him in place._

_Some days, he knows she never would have tried._

**.**

**.**

**.**

The liquor burns, the beer chaser doing little to settle his nerves. He thinks about another shot, but she's still coughing from the first, and he's never been a nice drunk, never been good at reeling in his temper once he's had a few.

"I didn't tell you, and I'm sorry," she murmurs, "Only thing my daddy and I disagreed upon."

"He came to see me once," Daryl says quietly, fingers nervously peeling the label of his beer, "left without saying anything, but I guess it makes sense now."

"You had a right to know," Beth whispers, eyes focused on the bar in front of her, "and I took that away."

"Don't blame you," he shrugs, taking a swig, "no one in their right mind would want a Dixon as a father."

"What?" Beth's eyes jump up to meet his, narrowing, "why would you even think that?"

He shrugs again, "I dunno."

"You didn't want _me_," Beth tells him sadly, "thought it would be easier. For both of us."

"Easier for who?" Daryl's hand tightens around his drink, "can't be that easy if you're back here. Why are you here, Beth? Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because my daddy is dead," she whispers, brushing her hair out of her face, looking up at him determinedly, "and you deserve to have a choice. So do you, Daryl? Do you want to be a father?"

No one is surprised when the glass shatters in his hand.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_The weird thing is, he remains in contact with Glenn._

_Yeah, _weird_._

_Merle is his usual bigoted self. Can't call him racist, because he's offensive towards everyone, but it gets his hackles up when he calls him 'Chinaman' or 'Long Duk Dong' and on more than one occasion Daryl's been forced to call him out on it, with a scowl and a _he's Korean, you ignorant fuck_._

_Like Merle gives a shit._

_Still, on the completion of the barn, both covered in equal amounts of sawdust and paint, the younger man suggested a drink. And Daryl couldn't find a reason to disagree._

"_Hershel doesn't keep any alcohol in the house," he explains, and Daryl nods, because everyone in this town knows that Hershel's a recovering alcoholic, so he didn't expect anything to the contrary. Glenn buys the first round._

"_Maggie says you're a mechanic?" Glenn implores and Daryl nods, "Moonlighting as a handyman?"_

"_Just know how to fix things," he shrugs, "good with my hands."_

"_Never was a manual labour kind of guy," Glenn shrugs, "but Maggie wants to move out of the city and get a house and figured I should probably learn the basics."_

"_So I've been teaching you the basics?" Daryl smirks, "Shoulda charged more."_

"_Yeah, you were ripped off, man."_

_Daryl chuckles lightly._

"_You know, Beth's leaving," Glenn says carefully. He stiffens, and shrugs. _

"_Good. This town wasn't doin' her any favours."_

"_Maggie thinks you can convince her to stay."_

_At this, he scoffs. "What she think this is, some kind of damn romance novel? Thinks I'm gonna chase her to the airport and give some kind of grand speech? She's a grown ass woman. If she wants to go, she can go."_

_Glenn gives him a terse smile. "She's Maggie's little sister. Just want her safe, you know?"_

_Yeah, Daryl knows a thing or two about wanting people to stay. Also knows a thing or two about not being able to force people to stay._

"_Girl deserves to be happy," Daryl says gruffly, "she ain't been happy in a long time."_

_And judging by the resigned expression on Glenn's face, he knows that's true._

**.**

**.**

**.**

"And it's yours? Are you sure?"

"Why the fuck would she lie about it?"

"I don't know," Merle runs a hand over his head, "maybe she fucked an uglier, dirtier redneck than you. Decided to pass the kid off as yours. Girl's standards have never been high."

"Don't be an idiot," Daryl scoffs, turning the picture over in his hands, the one she had given him and told him, quietly, to _keep it_. "Beth's not like that."

"Well, regardless of what she's like, you're a daddy, baby brother. Congratulations!"

"Fucking hell," Daryl curses, "I ain't meant to be a dad."

And hell, he's not. Hasn't got the first clue on how to be a father. Didn't have a good example of one anyway, all he's got is memories of the bastard who used to shoot things in their trailer and take his anger out on him with the buckle of the belt.

Still, Merle keeps pushing it.

"Well, you are, Daryl," Merle states, serious for a change, looking him dead on, "so whatcha gonna do about it?"

Thing is, that's never been the issue. That answer has always been the simple one, at least in his mind.

"Dixon's take care of their own."

**.**

**.**

**.**

_He remembers being a child, but not having a childhood._

_But sad stories are a dime a dozen from where he's from, kids growing up with absent dads and strung out mothers. He remembers Merle, fifteen, kids lining up at their trailer with all the money they could steal from their parents and grocery lists of things they needed. More often or not baby formula and nappies, sometimes over the counter medicines. Things that were hard to steal and too expensive to buy. Merle managed, got caught occasionally, until he got caught one too many times and thrown into juvie. But he was always out a few months later, up to his old tricks, trading baby food for cigarettes. _

_It was his reality. _

_He split at seventeen, when Daryl was only seven and their mother ashes still warm. Daryl wasn't Merle, couldn't take over the mantle of his illegal trading, not at seven, not when he had to steal to keep himself alive._

_Never accepted any pity, didn't need or have want for any sympathy. Not when two trailers down some poor kid was probably going through the same thing. Not when every time he went to bed, back bleeding, stomach growling, there was bound to be another going through the same suffering._

_God takes care of all the little things. Must have dropped the ball when it came to the backwoods of Georgia._

**.**

**.**

**.**

The gravel crunches loudly underneath his tyres and it feels like yesterday that he was pulling up to the Greene farm, as opposed to five years ago. This time round, he's got his bike, not his truck, and he brings it to a stop in front of the grand farmhouse instead of the barn. From a glance, his handiwork has stood well against the elements and time, confirming Glenn's constant reassurances.

"Daryl!"

Beth waves to him from the porch and there's something about her that takes his breath away, like all those years ago when she would wear her flirty summer dresses and bring him lemonade in the hot sun. Something that makes his chest ache and he recalls the last time she wore such a thing, in a dingy bar, standing at a microphone, looking so incredibly broken.

That woman is long gone. The new Beth beams at him, running down the steps to greet him, her hair glinting in the sunlight.

"He's in the living room," she says breathlessly, leading him up the stairs to the porch, "I told him you were a friend. I, uh, figured we'd see how this goes. Figured we'd see if you actually want this-"

"I want this," Daryl interrupts, "I want to be his dad."

"Oh," Beth glances up, surprised, "you don't want to-"

"No," Daryl says firmly, "I'm his father, he's my son. I can't promise I'll be good at this, Beth, but I can promise that I'll try."

"Okay," Beth takes a deep breath, then plasters on a bright smile, "okay!"

Leading him through the entranceway, he thinks back to the months he worked on the barn, but never once stepped foot into the main house. Daryl can recall Hershel telling him that it had been in his family for generations, and the house is old, but well cared for. Generations of Greene's are plastered in frames on the wall; Beth, Maggie, and what he assumes is the brother taking up the majority. He feels haunted, and can only imagine that's what Beth must feel like, only amplified, staying in this house filled with ghosts.

"Dyl," she calls out as they reach the living room, the small boy looking up from his Lego and dinosaurs, "I want you to meet someone. This is Daryl Dixon."

Glancing up curiously, the boy gives him a shy smile. "Do you wanna play with me?"

Beth nods at him, encouragingly, and his knees crack as he crouches to his level, taking one of the dinosaurs in his hand.

"What are we playing?"

"Dinosaurs vs. humans," Dylan says quietly, "the humans are losing."

Beth chuckles. "He has a very overactive imagination."

"S'good," Daryl smirks, "humans probably had it comin' anyway."

It's weirdly nice as he spends the next hour playing make believe with his son, creating intricate fantasies with complicated political systems. He's a bright kid, slightly precocious, but endearing and Beth excuses herself to make lunch, leaving him alone in his company. Truth is, Daryl doesn't even notice when she slips out of the room, doesn't notice until she comes back, announcing lunch is ready and summoning them both to the table."

"Did you like playing with Daryl, baby?" Beth asks, ruffling his hair affectionately. Dylan nods, taking a big gulp of his juice, grinning from ear to ear.

"He's fun, Mama."

"Well, Dyl," Beth says, smiling at Daryl nervously, "thing is, Daryl's not just a friend of Mama's. He's actually your daddy."

Dylan stares at Daryl, seemingly processing this information. Nodding solemnly, he glances back to his mother, looking rather hopeful.

"Does that mean he can play dinosaurs vs. humans with me again?

Daryl chuckles and Beth beams.

"Sure, little man," Daryl says softly, "whenever you like."

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Was a time when they thought Merle was a gonna be a daddy._

_Girl he was seeing on and more recently off, showed up at the garage one day, with a scowl and an obvious bump._

It's yours_, she snapped, _so what are ya gonna do, Merle Dixon?

_Did what any man would do, stepped up, got clean, got his shit in order. Went shopping for baby things and was _this_ close to buying a truck, when he found out that the baby was conceived when he was doing a stint in jail, and she was seeing someone else. Truth came out soon after; she planned on giving the baby up for adoption, but she needed someone to foot the medical bills._

_And that someone was Merle Dixon. _

_He told her where she could go afterwards, but for a moment, just a moment, it looked like this might have been a fresh start for his older brother. _

_Funny how everything can come crashing down._

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Kid can't stop talking about you, you know?"

Daryl takes a swig of his beer. Across the room, Merle is yelling at the TV with Abraham, some old army buddy.

"That so?"

"Yeah," Glenn smirks, "had dinner at the farm the other night, he was all 'my daddy this, my daddy that'. 'My daddy rides a motorbike and always lets the dinosaurs win'. Maggie's jealous."

Daryl smirks, busying himself with a bag of chips so to hide his expression from Glenn. He's smiling like a crazy person these days. Only seen the kid a few times (four times, because he _is_ counting), and already he thinks that this is the happiest he's ever been.

"I'm sorry I never told you," Glenn says quietly, seriously, looking nervous, "never been good at keeping secrets, but this wasn't mine to tell. Felt like I was going to blurt it out every time I saw you, though."

"You were a bit jumpy," Daryl notes, "thought it was a being married to Maggie thing."

Glenn laughs until he can't breath. "Daryl Dixon making jokes, as I live and breathe."

"Yeah well, I played with Lego for three hours yesterday and watched Jurassic Park twice in a row. I'm doing all kinds of new things."

Glenn grins. "Come to ours Friday night. We're having a small dinner for Beth's birthday."

"Don't think she'd want me there," Daryl declines with a shrug.

"Dyl would," Glenn notes, "and Beth wants anything that will make her son happy."

And like that, Daryl finds himself slowly seeping into the Greene family.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Daryl flings open the front door._

"_Who are you?"_

_In front of him, hand poised to knock again, the blonde man scowls at him questioningly._

"_I said, who are you?"_

_Daryl snorts. "Who the fuck are you, man?"_

"_I asked first," the man snaps and Daryl's starting to lose his patience. _

"_You knocked on my door, I don't have to tell you shit."_

"_This isn't your door," the man throws back, "Beth Greene lives here. So I'm going to ask you again, who are you?"_

"_Daryl," he growls, "so what the fuck do you want?"_

"_I'm Jimmy," he huffs, "and if you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from her."_

I know I was born and I know that I'll die. The in between is mine…

_Her voice rings clear, even over the running water of the shower, as she sings a Pearl Jam song he vaguely recognises. _

"_Jimmy, huh?" Daryl's eyes narrow, "Married, ain't ya? Couple of kids? And yet you keep sniffin' round where you ain't wanted."_

"_Dixon, you piece of shit-"_

"_No, you listen to me, shithead," Daryl's hands curl around the doorframe, crowding him, "you run along back to your picture perfect family. Beth ain't no one's side piece, definitely ain't yours, so leave her the fuck alone. I see you near her again I'll beat the shit out of you, ya hear?"_

_Jimmy's face falls, and he looks defeated._

"_You don't understand, I love her."_

"_Tough shit," Daryl snaps, "you made your bed. Go lie in it." _

_Slamming the door, Daryl flops down on the couch, just as Beth emerges from the bathroom. Her hair hangs heavy down her back, the strands darkened by the water, and his eyes roam up her body to the hem of her too short towel._

"_Someone at the door?" she asks, pecking him on the lips and moving towards the kitchen._

"_Some salesman," Daryl lies, "told him you ain't interested."_

"_Thanks," she grins and it's blinding, it truly is. And sure, she'll never know that he said what he said, and, truthfully, she probably wouldn't have liked it. But it's more than he's ever done in his life._

_It's more than he thought he would ever do, period._

**.**

**.**

**.**

He's surprised that she's still staying at the farmhouse, despite everything. It takes stepping into the house to understand the ways in which the presence of her mother and brother and father still linger. From her mother's apron hanging beside the fridge to her brother's room, standing like a shrine. It's there his son sleeps, in this mismatched room belonging to a young man who loved the Falcons and Pearl Jam in equal amounts. There are dinosaurs on the desk now, Lego in containers on the floor. A nightlight that reflects constellations on the wall and when he carries his son to bed after Glenn and Maggie's barbeque, he wonders, not for the first time, what kind of child this is, this son of his. This new breed of Dixon.

"Daddy?"

That word. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to that word.

"Yeah, bud?"

"Will you read me my story?"

A worn copy of _Where the Wild Things Are_ sits on the bedside table, and he reads the book slowly, giving the young boy enough time to take in the illustrations, to trace his small finger around the crown on Max's head. He listens, enthralled, and Daryl almost loses his place when the boy wiggles his way under his arm to lean against his chest.

No Dixon son has ever done that before. Hell, no Dixon father would ever allow it.

"You need help with the words, Daddy?" Dylan asks, glancing at him curiously, "I can read them, Mama taught me."

Something that feels a lot like pride swells in his chest and Daryl chuckles, shaking his head.

"I got it, Dyl."

_But the wild things cried, "oh please don't go - we'll eat you up - we love you so!"_

When the story is finished he finds that his son has fallen asleep. A Dixon in the arms of a Dixon.

And he marvels at this small child all over again.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"_You wanna talk about what happened?"_

"_Nothing to talk about," Daryl snaps, slamming the hood of the car. Merle chuckles._

"_So I lied to Teach for nothing? This some weird sex kink? Some kind of hate-fucking role play?"_

"_Shut up," Daryl growls, reaching for his empty water bottle, "she ain't like that."_

_Merle smirks, following him into the break room. Daryl wishes for once in his life his brother would just _do_ something for him without question._

_But if wishes were fishes, they'd all be casting nets._

"_Sweetest piece this side of Georgia wants _your_ redneck dick, and what, you dump her?" Merle looks at him, incredulously, "you some kind of dumb shit? You ride that train for as long as your ticket's valid, Darylina."_

"_She wants things I can't give her, alright," Daryl slams down the water bottle, it bounces off the table and skitters across the floor, "girl like her, soon enough she'll start to believe I can."_

"_Why can't you, baby brother," Merle shrugs, on the verge of seriousness, "you always were the sweet one. Why not you?"_

_Daryl scoffs. Because a Dixon doesn't change his stripes and there are no new tricks to be learnt here. _

_And they're all crazy for thinking otherwise._

**.**

**.**

**.**

It was an accident. It truly was.

He arrived on time. Maggie and Glenn, who had taken Dylan to the movies, were late, traffic causing an hour-long delay.

They aren't good at small talk. Hell, talking in any capacity has never really been a strength.

"Got him this," Daryl shoves a stuffed dinosaur into her hands, anxious to get rid of the toy, "thought he might like it. And, uh, thought he might like to go huntin' – well, not _huntin'_, but, like, trackin'. In the woods-"

And she kisses him, hard and clumsy and practically _falling_ into him. He hits the wall hard, attempting to steady them and regain his balance. She doesn't apologise like she would have five years ago. No, instead her teeth clash against his and his mouth vibrates in time with her body. She is electric, she is a live-wire shocking everything she touches and right now, she is setting his nerve endings alight.

Her hands find his belt, fingers moving quickly and all he can do is try and keep up.

"_Beth_," he groans her name and her lips find his neck, sucking and nipping and, god, he feels her slip his belt free from the loopholes, hears it clunk to the ground.

"It's been five years," she moans, grinding against him, "please Daryl, _please_."

Until this point, he'd been a passive player. But she's _begging _him, and while he hasn't been celibate for five years, his thoughts sometimes turned to her for release, her and her silken hair and velvet skin and body that awoke within him a flurry of sensations that in those dark, lonely moments he tried so desperately grasp onto.

Not now though. Now, she is real and she is in front of him and he cannot move. Because if he moves, she will disappear. Because if he moves, he will wake up.

_Please_.

His hands find her hips, softer than he remembered, rounder, but he knows that this is because of his son, _their _son, and that thought only makes him grasp her tighter. Spinning her around, her back hits and wall and her legs find their way around his waist and he's planting open mouth kisses on her jaw, neck, the curve of her breast, before finding her lips and stealing her breath, leaving her panting and gasping and her fingers clawing at his shoulders for leverage. She tastes just as he remembers, like strawberries and mint and summer rain.

"You want this, girl?" he breathes, and she presses her forehead to his, half moaning, half sighing, grinding her hips against his.

"As much as you do."

This moment. _This moment_. It's this moment, when he pulls them away from the wall, when he navigates them up the stairs, when she slips from his arms and leads him to her bedroom, to her bed. She pulls her dress over her head, unhooks her bra and slips out of her panties. His fingers ghost over the marks on her stomach, the scar from where they cut his son out of her. _You think we match or something_ and god, he was a cruel bastard then, for belittling the horrors of her own past. He wants to go back in time and beg for her forgiveness, because she was trying to prove something then, to him, to herself, that there's beauty in flaws and he's never believed it until this moment. Until he saw for his own two eyes the mark from which bore their son.

_Their son_. Their son, their son, their son.

"How are you this beautiful?" Daryl murmurs and her fingers tilt his chin up, blue meeting blue and she sighs so serenely.

"Please, Daryl," she whispers.

_Please._

**.**

**.**

**.**

_He doesn't have much to do with Hershel. The man doesn't hover, that Daryl's grateful for. Observes quietly sometimes, not so much his handiwork, more so the actual barn. Like it represents something greater to the old man, something both ugly and beautiful. Something he'd like in equal parts to remember and forget._

"_I proposed to my first wife right there," he points to where Daryl's tightening the bolts on the support beams, "same place where my daddy used to made me chop wood until I passed out. Gotta replace bad memories with good ones. That's what my Josephine taught me."_

"_That so," Daryl says gruffly. Hershel smiles lightly, leaning on his crutch. _

"_It's nice to see my Bethy happy."_

_At this, he has no response. Because what, is he supposed to straight out confirm to the old man that he's fucking his daughter? _

"_I think this will be a good memory for her."_

_He wants to scoff, he wants to laugh, he wants to tell the old man that he must be drunk because there's no way that him, rebuilding her family barn is enough to counter the memory of her father crashing into it._

_No way in hell._

**.**

**.**

**.**

His son is quiet.

He imagined him to be like the wild things of his book, stomping and growling his way through the woods, but instead he is silent, he is observant.

And Daryl is nothing if not relieved.

"See that," he whispers, pointing at a print in the dirt, "a deer came through here."

Dylan looks at him, eyes wide.

"You gonna kill it?"

Daryl shifts the crossbow over his shoulder, shaking his head.

"Nah, we're just gonna look at it."

"Why do you have ya crossbow?" Dylan asks, and he recalls the way his eyes bugged out of his head when he saw the bulky weapon.

"All kind of wild things in these woods," Daryl murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips, "gotta protect ourselves, son."

_Son_. It slips out so naturally that he sometimes doesn't catch it.

They continue like this, Dylan's quiet footfalls keeping pace with his, pointing out tracks and markings to indicate that they're gaining ground. When they come to a small stream, he stops, reaching for Dylan's hand, pulling him to the ground behind some low hanging branches.

"See?" Daryl whispers and through the foliage stands a young buck, eyes darting around, sensing their presence.

That's all Dylan does, watches the young animal with wide eyes and falls forward, only slightly. The buck looks straight at them, straight at his son, who doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, until the animal, on it's own accord, turns and trots behind the cover of the trees and out of their sight.

Dylan grins, squeezing his hand.

"Let's go home, yeah?" Daryl suggests and Dylan stands, never letting go.

"Supper will be waiting for us," he says, yawning. Shifting his crossbow to his chest, he crouches, waiting for Dylan to wrap his legs around his waist and arms around his neck, and he carries his young son back home.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_She is beautiful and broken. And he feels like shit because he more than likely contributed to the latter._

_He's not so self-absorbed to think that he's the cause root of it, not when she's up on stage singing a song for another man, a dead man, a man she loved and who loved her in return, in the way that siblings do. Fiercely, loyally, blood thicker than everything else. _

_But still, when she slips into her seat beside him, she bares her soul to him, like a woman with nothing to lose. And it hurts, how she has given up, and he has no one to blame but himself, and his own insecurities and his own demons that he can't for the life of him overcome. _

_Maybe could have, maybe with her. But they won. They always won._

_Because when she asks him, half earnest, half afraid, if he cared, if they had a future, it's his demons, his scars that tell her that they were never going to last. _

_If her heart wasn't broke before, he's gone and shattered it now._

_His heart never existed in the first place._

**.**

**.**

**.**

Merle is his own brand of wild thing, so it's no surprise how quickly his son takes to him.

Daryl even introduces him as _Uncle Merle_ and his older brother hoots with laughter.

"Oh boy, this is serious!"

Within the hour they're running around the farm together, their own live action version of dinosaurs vs. humans, and Merle is roaring while Dylan shoots him with a pretend crossbow.

"Greene's are pacifists," Beth teases him from the porch, bumping his arm with hers, "must be the Dixon in him."

"Yeah," Daryl smirks, "he's a regular killer."

Beth laughs, because at that moment, Merle goes down, faking his death and Dylan squawks with laughter.

"Let me take you out," Daryl says, the words feeling foreign and uncomfortable. He tries them again, "let me take you and Dylan out. To dinner in town."

"Daryl," she begins hesitantly, "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"You still worried about what people say about you?" Daryl asks gruffly, "It's been five years-"

"And it's still the same," Beth interrupts, shaking her head, "it's still the same, Daryl. Did you know that Jimmy split from his wife five years ago? And they all think Dylan's his, thinks that _it serves me right_ for destroying a marriage and having his bastard."

"Fuck Jimmy," Daryl curses, "fuck the town. You give our son my name and they'll all back the fuck off. Hell, you can have my name too. Ain't having anyone call our son a bastard."

"Did you just propose to me, Daryl Dixon?"

Fuck. He glances at her, her expression one of shock and he wants to take back the words, even though they felt so _right_.

"I – uh, I…"

"I'm selling the farm," Beth blurts out, "Maggie and I. There's too many memories and the up-keep is too much."

"And you're…"Daryl trails off, already knowing her answer.

"Moving back home," Beth whispers, "back to our lives."

His head is spinning. In the distance, Merle has Dylan in the air, like an aeroplane, his gleeful squeals punctuating the cold silence that has fallen.

"You can't do this, Beth," Daryl says firmly, "you can't take him away."

"Please, Daryl," Beth says softly, "please don't made this harder than it already is."

"What then, Beth?" he snaps, his voice growing louder, "Should I make it fucking easy?"

"You have to understand-"

"Understand what?" he yells, "Understand that you're taking _my_ son away from me? Understand that you're too _chicken shit_ to face this town, even after five years, even after you supposedly put all that crap behind you? Understand that you're still that girl who runs away from her problems instead of facing them like the woman she is?"

He's in face, towering over her, finger pointing at her angrily. And she's trying not to cry, instead looking straight ahead into the distance. And when he turns to see what she's staring at, his world comes crashing down at the sight of his son hiding behind his brother, staring at him with fear in his eyes.

And there it is. Another fucking mirror into the past.

He doesn't wait for Beth to tell him to leave. He's already in his truck and halfway down the drive.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"_You know what I think, baby brother?"_

_The phone is heavy in his hands, the perspex between them smudged with finger prints and tears of poor souls missing their loved ones so fiercely. Not the brothers Dixon. There are no tears or heartfelt moments. There are words, heavy sometimes, always solemn._

_It's the same old story. Merle, making his bed and lying in it. And Daryl waiting for his return._

"_What do you think?"_

"_I think we're cursed," Merle replies certainly, gripping the receiver tightly, "I think we're doomed to relive the lives of all those that came before us, that we'll continue to make the same mistakes until we die."_

_Daryl resists the urge to drop the phone back into the receiver, to turn and leave and hop on his bike and ride away as fast as he can. _

"_That's bullshit," Daryl curses, "we ain't no self-fulfilling prophecy. There's just us and our lives and what we make of them."_

"_Teach teach you that?" Merle smirks. Daryl ignores him. "Been two years, Darylina. Gotta let her go."_

"_Never had her in the first place," Daryl shrugs, "and there's no such thing as curses."_

_Though lately, he's not so sure._

**.**

**.**

**.**

She calls him two weeks later.

He stays away, because that's all he really knows how to do.

"Dylan misses you," she breathes down the line, "keeps asking what he did wrong."

"I can't see him, Beth," Daryl murmurs, "not _after_…"

"Yes you can," she replies firmly, "you don't have a choice."

So he drives the hour to the farm, pulls up to the front. Unlike his previous visits, there are no little feet running out to meet him. Instead, there's Beth, on the porch, looking eighteen, twenty-eight, thirty-eight, like all her years have piled atop her shoulders and she's trying not to collapse under the weight of it all.

"He in his room?" Daryl asks and Beth shakes her head.

"At Maggie and Glenn's. We need to talk."

"Okay," Daryl murmurs, "okay."

"Six years ago," Beth begins, "I was in love with you. But you didn't want me. Or didn't think you deserved me. I don't know, it doesn't matter now. I moved away, and found out I was pregnant with Dylan and I kept him. And it was – _is_ – the best decision I have ever made. You were, in ways, the best decision I ever made. Because you pulled me out of my comfortable shell and made me fight my own battles."

She takes a deep breath.

"I think I forgot that while I was away. Greene's are pacifists, you know."

"Yeah," he nods, "I know."

"I'm still selling the farm," she states firmly, "Maggie and I agreed that it's for the best. These boxes are filled with what my landlord packed. I broke my lease back home and I found a place twenty minutes outside of town. Lot's of woods, good for hunting and wild things."

"You're staying?" Daryl asks, dumbfounded.

"Yeah," Beth replies, "what you said was true, but not the way you said it. You gotta promise me you'll work on that, your anger. For our son sake."

"I promise," he breathes, "oh god, Beth, I promise."

"And we gotta take this slow," she adds, "what happened…_before_, that was my fault. I wanted you _so_ badly. But I don't want to confuse Dylan."

"He comes first," Daryl nods, "always."

"We can have this, Daryl," Beth whispers, her hand slipping into his, squeezing it gently, "it's just going to take some time and adjustment and trust."

It's overwhelming, it's amazing, it's brighter than any light he's ever seen. It's his future, so close, and so defined with such crystal clear clarity that he can't tear his eyes away.

**.**

**.**

**.**

He proposes to Beth on Dylan's sixth birthday.

Awake at dawn, as is his way, he makes his way silently into the kitchen, brews a pot of coffee and fixes her a cup of tea and peanut butter on toast. Later, he'll make the kid pancakes or eggs or whatever he wants, because this is what he does now, and happily so.

"Morning," she smiles, stretching sleepily, and he places the tray on her bedside table, before letting her tug him down into a languid kiss.

"Mornin'," he tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, "your son is six today."

"_Our _son is six today," she correctly playfully, "I feel so old."

"Practically ancient," he smarts and she swats at him, rolling her eyes.

"Not supposed to agree with me," Beth whines, "supposed to tell me that I look youthful and radiant and much too young to have a six year old son."

"Well," Daryl swallows the lump in his throat that's been there since the day Maggie gave him Annette's ring, "good thing I got you something then."

He reaches into his own bedside table drawer, pulling out the small velvet box, revealing the antique ring.

Beth's breath catches. "Is that…"

"Yeah," Daryl confirms, no need to elaborate on what she already knows. "Marry me, Beth."

He tries to forget that it's only been six months since that day on the porch. Tries to forget that he's only been living here for a month, has only been intimate with her for three. Instead he tries to remember all the progress; his anger counselling, how they revealed to each other their scars, physically and emotionally. How with every passing day they have watched their son grow into a curious, kind, adventurous boy and marvelled at all the ways that he is a part of them and his own little person.

"Yes," Beth answers, eyes filling with tears, "Yes!"

His lips find hers and he wraps her up in his embrace, only stopping long enough to slip the ring on her finger. Kisses her like it's his last breath, like a dying man, and he would take it further were it not for the sound of little feet running over wooden floorboards, leaping into their bed.

"Morning Mama, morning daddy!"

Pulling away, Beth embraces her son, beaming. "Happy birthday, baby."

"Happy birthday, bud,"

He lies crosswise between them, his head on Beth lap, feet on Daryl's stomach. Reciting off everything he wants to do on his birthday, which ranges from the planetarium, to hunting, to building a fort, Beth flashes him a smile that he can't help but return.

She's all he ever wanted. _He's _all he ever wanted.

Just took him five years to figure it out.

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p>Songs used:<p>

_I'm Still Alive - _Pearl Jam

_I am Mine _- Pearl Jam


End file.
